Shattered Dream
by Frog-kun
Summary: Miles Edgeworth always wanted to be a defense attorney. The events that shattered his dream would haunt him for fifteen long years. An introspective take on the DL-6 Incident. Gen fic, although P/E if you want to see it that way. COMPLETE.
1. 1 of 4

**Before Everything Changed...**

**==D==**

I was born to be a lawyer. No voice was more insistent than Miles Edgeworth's – that is, my own. Long before I was even aware of what a lawyer's profession entailed, I can remember my eyes trailing over the spines of my father's law tomes. I would run my hands over their stiff covers and marvel upon their thickness and voluminous number of pages. So I would sit, transfixed and on the frontier of an exotic world that could only be accessed through knowledge.

I remember as a young boy endeavouring to read every single law book in Father's bookshelf. I was the sort of child who found encyclopaedias and dictionaries fascinating rather than trite and dull. I would always wonder: _"If I could absorb all the knowledge contained here..." _and the thought would make me shiver in anticipation as I tentatively predicted what Father's reaction would be.

The logical result was that as young as five, I was a voracious reader. I prided myself on being capable of spelling words such as "Objection" and "Evidence" when other boys and girls struggled with "cat" and "dog".

Curiously enough, in spite of my precociousness, I was not regarded as an altogether brilliant student at English. In fourth grade, I was told to write a creative story and I chose to recount a court case I thought Father had handled remarkably well. After reading the story (my transcript was conveyed across thirty-four handwritten A4 pages), my ever-suffering teacher found it her duty to inform me of a supposed lack of imagination I exhibited on my part. In order to illustrate her dubious point, she read to me a story written by another student by the name of Larry Butz: it appeared to concern a giraffe that donned a black cape and flew to the moon. The incident made me furious, and I sincerely hope Larry has forgotten every single speck of detail concerning that deplorable piece of writing he passed off as a story.

I assume my lack of patience for fiction was once again rooted in my deep desire to follow in my father's footsteps. A criminal lawyer sees the world in truths and untruths; what cannot be proven through infallible evidence must by default become an untruth. To this philosophy I have rigidly adhered to and I must admit it frustrates me when others disregard it.

One such occasion occurred, again, when I was in fourth grade. My class held a trial to accuse and punish a boy named Phoenix Wright for stealing my lunch money. That they held a trial seemed fair enough to me, however, it was but a phoney, cheap imitation of the justice system I was familiar with. Baseless accusations flew and held without discretion.

For a start, the evidence was entirely circumstantial. Thirty-eight dollars was stolen during P.E. class while Wright did not participate. It proved absolutely nothing beyond Wright's lack of an alibi, which did not in itself lend to guilt. It frustrated me how even the teacher, a grown woman, failed to perceive such a glaring flaw in the accusation's logic.

I remember telling Father about this incident, how I stood up for Wright and acted as his defence. That was when Father smiled at me and told me how I would make a good defence attorney one day. I can still remember that unabashed thrill of delight that went through me because of those words.

As a father, Gregory Edgeworth always seemed to know the right things to say. He was never patronising to me. It was to no surprise that as a boy, I held onto and dissected nearly every word he imparted to me. I have always remembered Father as a giant with kindly eyes, although photographic evidence of his corpse states a different case. Father was no giant; he was a simple, ordinary man with a similarly unassuming build. The photo shows no evidence of his personality; there, he was slumped over, indistinguishable from the countless deceased. My eyes always flit over his blemishes, and I can sense something beyond boyish adoration behind such an action. Describing my father has always been difficult because of that.

As a lawyer, Gregory Edgeworth was a brilliant man. Even I at my tender age could appreciate his composure and flair. What he lacked in physical presence, he made up for with a cool, methodical logic and a calm mind that could cut through countless webs of lies and inevitably wrap itself around the truth. Father explained his cases in a clear, concise manner understandable to children yet eloquently enough to impress adults. He made no attempt to obfuscate the court and neither did he make any attempt to hide any truths. Not all of Father's clients were found Not Guilty – perhaps the prosecution's case was too strong or the defendant was guilty all along. In those cases, Father always made a point to congratulate the prosecutor after the trial.

"Defence attorneys and prosecutors are not enemies," I remember him saying. "We are merely vessels to find the truth."

I remember not quite understanding because whenever I watched Father cross-examine a witness, it seemed like a battle of wits between him and the prosecution. An "Objection!" would be called here and an "Objection!" there and so the two of them would rally their arguments back and forth as if the courtroom was a tennis court and the Judge an umpire.

Only once can I recall when Father did not sportingly congratulate a winning prosecutor. My memory would have been rather unreliable if I could not remember that man's name: It was Manfred von Karma. I was not to know it during that fateful day in court, but the von Karma name would be one that would preside over my every action afterwards...

... and that this predicament would be one that I alone would choose.

**==L==**

Ever since I defended Phoenix Wright in that classroom trial, he stuck to me like an adhesive. For some reason, Larry Butz joined in to make up our quaint little trio, although to this day, I marvel upon how I was able to tolerate his presence for all those months. On retrospect, perhaps I should be grateful that it was _only _for a few months. Any longer and perhaps his stupidity would have proved fatally contagious.

Wright was a rather harmless boy in comparison and, as I discovered in the subsequent months, was more inclined to share than to steal. I believe I liked him because he took to my explanations of law and justice rather well, although he did make the most bizarre leaps of logic. ("If common law is set by precedent, does that mean they make uncommon law based on stuff that hasn't happened yet?")

Unsurprisingly, I was duly regarded as the brightest of the trio, and whenever Larry or Wright had a problem, they invariably approached me, with my seemingly vast array of legal knowledge at my disposal. I could never rely on them in a similar manner. If there was something I was poor at, I could never ask for help. There was an occasion, for instance, when I was hopeless at origami. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I wept bitter tears at my failure to fold a paper crane and yet refused to ask the (for once) more knowledgeable Larry for advice.

Yet in spite of my stubborn streak, my occasional need for help could not always be kept clandestine. I remember once in the playground twisting my ankle and that it was Wright who carried me to the infirmary. Despite my unmistakably indignant outburst at the very suggestion, Wright held fast to me. When I think back on it, I suppose he was always that kind of person, the type who would remain foolishly steadfast to a friend to the bitter end. He was always simple-minded like that.

I cannot recall the last time I saw my friends before I transferred. I believe there was a vague plan for a weekend get-together, although I evidently did not act on that promise.

By that time, the nightmares had started.

**==6==**

December 28th represents the beginning of an end for me. It was the day my dream withered and died, not from malnourish but from a shock that I could never fully recover from. The police records document and refer to the events of that day under the case name 'DL-6'. It was deemed a failure and a tragedy on all counts: the investigation and even the trial that came afterwards carried the weight of defeat and resignation. No one emerged a winner from that case.

The prelude act came in the form of a hitherto uneventful day in court. Although during the investigation, the police showed little interest in the trial Father lost to Manfred von Karma, at the time, I saw it as an epic showdown. I speak honestly when I claim that it was among the most intense court battles I have ever witnessed. Everything about von Karma was imperious: his clothing, his stature, his manner of speaking and the way he snapped his fingers. I always imagined the sound of it could subjugate rabid hounds. Yet in spite of all these attributes as well as a twenty-five year win streak as a prosecutor, von Karma was unable to intimidate the mild-mannered Gregory Edgeworth into submission. It was the first time I ever saw animosity in Father's eyes as he fought against the prosecutor's claims.

"_Objection! _No man has the right to manipulate the truth!" I can remember him saying with a roar. "I accuse you, Mr. von Karma, of faulty evidence!"

It was the last time I ever felt a blazing hot pride as my father's son. It did not "feel" like anything resembling finality then, of course. It never does.

Perhaps if I was a little older at the time, I would have walked away from that trial with a different impression. As a young boy, I interpreted it as von Karma's defeat because the accusation of faulty evidence held. The prosecutor walked from the courtroom with that slow, halting step that spoke of a defeated man who cannot accept his verdict.

The records speak differently. They clearly state that Gregory Edgeworth's client was found Guilty and executed.

Perhaps if I was older, I would have thought that the verdict and on whose side it favoured was what truly counted in a court of law. Maybe the pedestal I placed my father on would have crumbled eventually on its own accord.

I prefer not to think about it.


	2. 2 of 4

**Everything Changed...**

**==D==**

I have heard the testimony of countless convicted criminals in my career and one common aspect has always stood out to me: murder, even when premeditated, is almost never entirely volitional. Murder is an action resorted to only when the perpetrator deems it absolutely necessary or when the perceived benefits outweigh the risks. For this reason, the establishment of a motive has always had its place at the heart of a criminal trial. I have seen murderers break down into tears, lamenting upon how _"If only things were different...!" _While I bear no sympathy for criminals, I would be lying if I claimed not to understand how a single twist of fate can incontrovertibly corrupt a man's path.

For instance, everything I had lived and dreamed for as a child shattered to pieces in the district courthouse at 2pm. It began with an earthquake, the likes of which I had never experienced before. The sheer violence of it knocked the breath out through my teeth. It is a simple matter for me to recall the intensity of that quake and how I was swept off my feet by it, how my heart rose to my mouth and felt fit to burst. Any earthquake I experience since the event brings up stark flashbacks. It takes only a whim of nature to transport me back in time to when the elevator I stood in shook so jarringly, I thought I would plunge to my death.

Instead, the lights expired with a faint hiss, and ever so gradually, the tremor began to quell. When eventually stillness prevailed, my world had shrunk into the size of a small metal box and there I remained, crouched and in fear. The only thing that pervaded the darkness was a deathly silence and the panicked beating of my heart.

It could have been worse. I could have been alone in that elevator shaft and the sound of my frightened sobs would have reached no one. No one would have placed his comforting arms around my trembling body and whispered, "Hang in there, Miles. Help will come soon."

I believed Father, just as I believed everything he said. Following that initial shock, the situation, I thought, was bearable. I would emerge from this incident a shaken boy yet one with a plethora of adventures to recount to Wright and the others. I would not require the "imagination" my teacher insisted upon in order to weave an exciting story. Eagerly, I waited in pitch blackness for the moment I could re-enter reality. To prove how patient and mature I was beyond my years, I refused to fidget, even though none could see or reprimand me for my restlessness.

**==L==**

Father and I were not the only ones caught in the elevator by that earthquake. After the trial with von Karma ended, a bailiff escorted the two of us out of the courtroom.

Yanni Yogi was a gentleman. He chatted pleasantly about the weather, the trial and even about his fiancée. (I remember wishing he would shut up about her.) Although I suppose Father was in an ill mood from the outcome of the court case, he exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Yogi so that I would remain at ease. Adults are deceptively skilful at maintaining a civilised facade, although anyone who has attended a murder trial will be aware of the darker side of human nature. Mr. Yogi was not a man born to be a killer, yet the situation he found himself in was of the drastic kind that invariably strips away all traces of civility and human dignity.

When the earthquake hit, I remember Mr. Yogi emitting a terrified yelp and a curse as I let out a high-pitched scream. My last sight before the blackout ensued was of his pale countenance. It seemed as if the violent turbulence in the elevator had severely affected him. Had I not been so concerned about my own condition, I might have wondered if Mr. Yogi was going to be ill.

Tersely, he demanded what was going on, to which Father suggested an earthquake as the explanation. I then heard movement in the dark, followed by an exclamation of "The door's jammed!" from Mr. Yogi.

Thus, our presentiment was rendered clear to us: there was nothing that could be done but to wait for rescue.

My mind cannot accurately measure how long we remained in that elevator. Trapped in darkness and totally divorced from society, time played fickle tricks upon us. Seconds felt to us like hours, minutes like days. I afterwards discovered that the duration of our confinement was five hours, which was considerable even when regarded objectively.

The first half hour or so was by far the easiest of our ordeal. Once Mr. Yogi regained his composure, he was fairly philosophical about the situation, albeit mildly annoyed. He voiced his reservations about the security and how it was taking them so long to take note of our predicament. I could feel the edge in his voice. Even then, there was a layer of tension about him behind that polite and mature persona. Father concurred with Mr. Yogi's complaints, although I sensed the edge in his tone as well. That, more than anything, was what caused my reserves of bravery to trickle out of me.

Mr. Yogi continued his chatter, while Father's responses shortened in length and enthusiasm. I am certain Mr. Yogi must have been perceptive to this, yet still he talked on as if he suffered from verbal diarrhoea. Eventually, I began to suspect his desire was simply to hear his own voice. It was preferable to the unsettling stillness that lurked in the absence of familiar voices. I did not realise this until my own words created that damning silence.

Maddened by the sound of the bailiff's rambling, I said to him: "Stop wasting your breath! There's not enough oxygen in here to last forever!"

Immediately, as if I had pressed a mute button, all conversation ceased. I did not realise what a morbid truth I had spoken until the words tumbled past my lips. Then cold horror descended upon me, passing like electricity down my spine before settling in my stomach where it swam about, pulling and twisting in there. In this airtight metal prison, there was absolutely no avenue for fresh oxygen to enter. Already, the air began to feel thick, or perhaps the thought of it triggered my paranoia. When the stark realisation registered in my mind, I had no means to expel it.

_I could die in here._

Earlier, when the earthquake struck, the idea that I could possibly meet my end was one that came to mind. It arrived in a moment of otherwise blind panic and thus did not linger once my adrenaline had receded. The prospect of a slow death at the hands of oxygen deprivation was one that I found infinitely more horrific, if only because I had the time to dread its coming. As I detailed earlier, in that elevator, time took on a whole new deadly meaning. As each agonising minute crawled by, my hopeful prospects of rescue dwindled ever further.

Needless to say, once that ultimatum occurred to me, waiting became distinctly more discomforting. Sleep was naturally out of the question. The darkness served in no way to tempt me into slumber. I sat perfectly alert, for the very notion that I may die in my sleep was enough to keep me very much awake.

Even when the situation was so dire, I believe my safety was uppermost in Father's mind. In the beginning, he would touch my arm in a comforting manner, as if somehow physical contact could transfer his oxygen to me. Then, as the air continued to thicken, he lost the energy for that. So we sat in the same positions against the cool metallic walls for goodness knows how long. I did not venture to move an inch and all I endeavoured to ruminate upon was the intake of my breathing. I tried to inhale as little as humanly possible through my nose. Occasionally, I would overreach myself and suddenly I would take in a flailing gasp for breath. I knew Mr. Yogi would glare at me for that, even though all I could see of him was a very faint outline of his body. At such times, it was all I could do to hope that Father did not share a similar sentiment.

I believe it would be redundant to state how very frightened I was. It certainly seems so as I retell the story, although in truth, no amount of repetition could possibly express how prominent the fear was in my mind. My thoughts would dwell on my emotions, for there was nothing else I could do to occupy myself. Any attempt to distract my mind was a forced action. My keen wit became a double-edged sword because I would subconsciously remind myself the reason I sought distraction, thus rendering the entire effort fruitless. Predictably, my thoughts took on a vicious pattern of fear and despair. I was simply unable to help myself. I resolved then and there not to bring this memory up once I was done with it and never to speak of it to my friends.

After languishing in this sort of frame of mind for what seemed to me like an eternity and a half, _finally_, someone spoke. It was Mr. Yogi. Unable to contain the negative emotions welling up inside of him any longer, he at last broke the silence.

"H-Help! I can't breathe!"

"Quiet! I said quiet! You're not making this any easier!"

Father's voice answered him sharply. Hearing him merely added to my trepidation because for all his righteousness, not even Gregory Edgeworth was immune to the despair that looming death can bring. I was not to know it with any precise clarity, but the three of us alike suffered from a lack of oxygen. It was nigh impossible for any of us to think straight.

The adults continued their heated exchange. I wanted to shrink away from them and close my eyes to it. It is always unnerving for a child to witness the actions of adults who are unrestrained in attitude. Mr. Yogi was one thing but Father was another. _I was so used to looking up to him._

"I want to get out! Help! Get us out!"

"Don't shout! You'll just use up more oxygen!"

I heard a loud and aggravated grunt from Mr. Yogi in response and a sharp intake of breath and I thought: _Too much air!_

_..._

I cannot reliably remember anything that happened after that. My memory is nothing but static for that specific timeframe and cannot be drawn upon as witness testimony. I suppose at that precise moment, I must have blacked out. My next conscious memory is of me waking up in a hospital bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

I remember asking almost immediately for my father and being told by the kindly hospital staff that my father was unable to see me. I recall their eyes when they regarded me. They had such pitying eyes.

**==6==**

There is one more memory I have yet to recount about my predicament in the elevator. It was not a recollection I could wilfully retrieve when I woke up in the hospital bed. In fact, I am frankly uncertain whether this memory is genuine or not. Yet it concerns the DL-6 Incident and its haunting undertone is unyielding to me.

It is a dream I have. In the dream, there is more to Father and Mr. Yogi's argument than heated words.

"I... I can't breathe! You... you're using up my air!"

"Wh-what?"

"Stop breathing my air!" Mr. Yogi screams as if his lungs are alight. "I'll... I'll stop you!"

I hear sounds of frantic movement, and then a panicked gasp from Father. "Wh-what? What are you...?" He is unable to speak further, for he wheezes as if being choked.

I imagine Mr. Yogi with his hands placed around Father's neck, the light of a madman prominent in his eyes. I hear his desperate yell: "Stop breathing my aaaaair!"

My dream counterpart struggles to comprehend the situation. He is panicked and buries his head in his arms. For his father is being attacked and here seems to be absolutely nothing Miles Edgeworth can do to defend the weak and innocent.

In my scramble in the darkness, suddenly my fingers close around an object that is long, thin and smooth and has a type of handle protruding from its side. I realise it is a pistol, although whether it belonged to the bailiff or to the court as evidence I am unaware. I am in a daze. I have never handled firearms before; in fact, I loathed and despised them as a criminal's tool. Yet in my mind, a glimmer of hope shines and I think I can see the corner of it. I pick up the pistol and do something I would have known in any other circumstance to be totally asinine.

I hurl the gun towards the sound of the scuffle. I want Mr. Yogi to be vanquished and for him to take his filthy, murderous hands off Father. I want Father to live with just as much burning desire as I wish for myself. I will do whatever I can to protect him.

Almost immediately after I toss the weapon, I hear a bang that has continually echoed in my mind since.

It is the sound of a gunshot, and inside a small elevator with no avenue for even air to escape, the noise of it seems infinitely more deafening. Perhaps my imagination amplified that bang, although in any case, the sound that immediately follows it is infinitely more chilling.

I hear a man's scream. It is terrible and it is heart-stopping and it feels as if it will never end. It is the utterly bone-chilling scream that belongs to a person who has been shot and is in terrible agony. The sound of it is what rings in my ears when I wake from the dream, pale and in cold sweat. For almost every morning for the past fifteen years, I have risen to the sound of that man screaming.

It is the nightmare of a murder I committed.


	3. 3 of 4

**After Everything Changed...**

**==D==**

My marathon ordeal in the elevator proved only the beginning of the DL-6 tragedy. While time moved at such an excruciatingly slow rate in the elevator, I was swept into a whirlwind of activity in the months that followed. I can remember only scattered moments here and there, although my general impression of that period of my life is that it was an exceedingly difficult time for me. In my handful of memories, I do not recall smiling once. It was also a dreadfully chilly time in terms of the weather. New Years Day was beset by a downpour of rain, an accurate reflection of my mood.

I realise I garnered pity from many who knew little more about me than my name. The detective who informed me of my father's murder had such a sad expression on his no doubt habitually gruff features. He said he thought I was a brave boy and that it was admissible for me to cry. When I did nothing of the sort for his benefit, he offered me a toffee. I refused it.

The highly unusual circumstances surrounding Father's death prevented my period of bereavement from being considered standard. The police approached me with questions about the incident while the investigation remained fresh. I was constantly being asked to relive my most painful of memories. I was not resentful of the police – they were merely doing their jobs – yet I still felt hollow throughout the entire questioning. I already knew the detective in charge of the case felt sorry for me, and I developed a similar impression of the entire police department. They really did seem so rueful about their obligation to interview me.

No amount of sympathy changed the reality that I had somehow become fatherless overnight. At first, it was difficult to believe. I remember begging for evidence because my mind found it inconceivable that Father was actually _gone_. The police were understandably unwilling to provide me with a crime photo initially, yet they eventually obliged when I told them angrily that I would not answer their questions unless they did.

Unsurprisingly, the crime scene photo proved an irreconcilable shock to me despite my mental resolve to steel myself. The photo depicted my father as he had been found by the police. He was slumped back against the wall, a pool of blood readily identifiable on his frontal region. It was clear to me he had been shot fatally in the chest.

Equipped with my evidence, I could no longer wilfully deny myself the knowledge of Father's passing. Dry-eyed and subdued, I managed to survive the questioning. At the assurance I could cease the entire interview if it was too painful for me, I shook my head no and responded I would answer to the best of my ability and that I was sorry I did not witness the most vital moment. This latter statement was an obvious lie, for no boy could possibly desire to witness the moment of his father's murder.

Looking back, I find my emotional reaction to be rather curious. I resented crying and grizzling just as much as the next boy, but that certainly did not mean I was at all resistant to the temptation. I cried when things did not go my way, just as any pampered boy was wont to do. I cried because I was frustrated or because I was simply atrocious at origami. Superfluous reasons I can attest to. Yet Father's death was so overwhelming, it did not occur to me that I ought to cry my heart out. Occasionally, I would feel tears brimming in my eyes but I would wipe them away before staring morosely at my moist fingertips. I also have vivid memories of crying into my pillow at night. Actually, this was a habit I persisted with until well into my teens. I would emit a muffled, choking sob; quietly, as if I was afraid the world would hear me. My tears trickled from my eyes like water from a broken faucet – sporadic and minute in quantity and yet maddeningly unrelenting.

I learned in snippets the particulars of the DL-6 case. The murder weapon, that is, the pistol found in the elevator, was fired twice and the bullet found in Father's body matched the ballistic markings of the gun. No facts beyond that were concrete; Yanni Yogi was arrested for the crime only because there was a lack of suspects. I could perceive that the police were baffled by the lack of clues on the scene, coupled with my near useless testimony. It was obvious to me, even though they tried so relentlessly to leave me unaware of it.

There is a reason why the DL-6 Incident is regarded within police circles as a total investigation failure and not simply as a cold murder case. With the trial of Yanni Yogi rapidly approaching and still no solid leads in sight, the police attempted to secure justice in the most questionable and most desperate manner available to them: they consulted a spirit medium.

Even as a child, I had never procured much of an appreciation for supernatural phenomena and thus it seemed ludicrous to me that the police would consider some hocus pocus testimony from a batty old lady. Such were my thoughts. When I physically encountered Misty Fey, I was forced to momentarily reassess my assumption.

A kindly woman in her early thirties, Misty Fey hailed from the remote Kurain Village. She apparently required only visual stimulus of the deceased to be able to channel his spirit into her body. It sounded suspiciously like hogwash to me, yet in spite of myself I formulated a positive opinion of Mystic Misty, as she happened to be addressed by. Before the channelling, she brewed me a cup of herbal tea and I must admit I have been a fan of that brew ever since. There is nothing more pleasant than an evening spent after a hectic day's work winding down and sipping on that particular brand of tea.

Mystic Misty's taste in tea was not her only endearing attribute. Although she was as well aware as any of the adults involved in the case that the murder victim was my father, she did not gaze at me pityingly. Instead, she smiled with dimples visible on her cheek and eyes that twinkled.

"You seem sceptical about my powers," she said to me.

I told her that I did indeed believe that spirit channelling was a bunch of rot. Far from taking offence, she laughed. "I prefer it when people think like that," she admitted, as if revealing some vital secret. "It would be troublesome if everyone knew about the Kurain Channelling Technique."

Before I knew it, I blurted out: "Why? If you can prove it, why don't you?"

"Imagine," said Mystic Misty, "knowing that at any time of the day, you could ask a spirit medium to channel that loved one you sorely miss. Knowing something like that, it cheapens death, does it not? You might never learn how to stand on your own two feet."

I remembered with a start that she was to channel Father's spirit. I recall thinking that if it wasn't a hoax Father would be among us again.

"That's why," the spirit medium continued, interrupting my train of thought, "I will only be channelling for the police." She paused before changing the subject. "Do you like that tea, Miles?"

It seemed Mystic Misty was able to see right through me. I spluttered in reply. "Er... rather... er, ma'am..." I had never been so flustered in my young life. I may have been blushing.

"You can find it in the supermarket," Misty Fey said, much to my further embarrassment.

I curse that woman now. I curse her because I wanted to believe in her and because I thought maybe one day I would be able to move on from the tragedy of my pathetic loss.

I was not present for the channelling itself, although it was ostensibly a success. Father's spirit identified Yanni Yogi as his killer and so with newfound vigour, the investigation resumed.

Soon after that, the trial was upon us.

I saw Mr. Yogi in the defendant lobby as I was headed to the lavatory. He was pacing around nervously, snapping his gaze around haphazardly. He had, I noted, a classic case of "court jitters", as Father referred to them. Then I also noted that Father was dead and that it was Mr. Yogi's doing and my mirth evaporated instantly.

I was about to leave Mr. Yogi without greeting him when he turned around and noticed me staring at him from a distance. He was visibly unsettled and I believe I saw his pupil twitch at the sight of me.

"She's dead," he said flatly to me.

I was startled upon being addressed. I then wondered why I was so surprised at this when the two of us had persevered through a life-threatening situation together. I did not, however, feel any particular sense of camaraderie welling up in my heart. Far from it.

"Who's dead?" I asked.

"My fiancée," he answered simply. "Suicide."

And with that, the trial began. Mr. Yogi's defence attorney, a man named Robert Hammond, assisted in ushering his client into the courtroom. I was not to know it, but that was the last time I would ever speak directly with Yanni Yogi the bailiff.

**==L==**

I have always regarded that trial as a total, unmitigated failure, a complete miscarriage of justice. Although I was never summoned before the court to testify, the police did take statements from me, and my testimony was used by Mr. Hammond in his defence.

It was a simple matter to prove that Mr. Yogi suffered from oxygen deprivation like I did. Because I was deemed physically incapable of handling a gun, Mr. Hammond argued that the same could have applied to Mr. Yogi, who was therefore "not of sound mind." He did not point fingers towards potential culprits. He simply argued that Mr. Yogi was innocent.

The prosecution had no rebuttal. There was no evidence pointing to Mr. Yogi in particular beyond the claim of Gregory Edgeworth's ghost. The pistol that had claimed Father's life had been completely wiped of prints. When the prosecutor argued that Mr. Yogi could have erased his tracks, Mr. Hammond returned with: "Can you prove that it was him and not someone else?"

Looking back on the trial, I realise that the sole means to destroy Mr. Hammond's argument was to claim that I was a legitimate suspect. The entire defence rested on Mr. Yogi's plead to temporary insanity, yet if I who was in the position could have been the perpetrator, then so could Mr. Yogi. The police was unwilling to call the bluff. I had finally accepted a toffee after diligent persuasion from the detective and I remember the man assuring me that I would be able to rest easy after the trial. How very wrong he was.

I remember fuming as the Judge proclaimed his verdict. I remember wanting to tear my hair out and scream at the incompetence of the judicial system. I remember, from that moment onwards, despising defence attorneys.

As I watched Mr. Yogi walk from the courtroom a free man, I also recalled Misty Fey's spirit channelling and what a fraud she turned out to be. I decided to add spirit mediums to the list of occupations I loathed. Regardless of the fact that I believed Mr. Yogi to be guilty, I wanted, no, _needed _to blame someone. What sustained me until the trial was the prospect of justice being delivered. When that failed to occur, I realised my life had now completely spun out of the orbit to which I had been accustomed.

Up until that trial, I was somehow fixated on the notion that every defendant ought to be assumed innocent and that it was a lawyer's duty to society to defend the weak. I said as much to Wright when he asked why I defended him. I now see the matter differently. Defence attorneys protect criminals from their comeuppance. They defend for the sake of their remuneration. That, in my mind, rendered them a kind of felon too, repulsive in their own way.

My dream to follow in my father's footsteps summarily shattered, I left the courtroom without a word.

**==6==**

It has been almost fifteen years since the DL-6 Incident ended. I am a successful prosecuting attorney now, boasting an almost unblemished conviction record despite my relative youth. To a casual observer, it must seem that I not only recovered from the scars of my past, I thrived in spite of them, displaying all the potential I had as a child and more. That I did not yield from the legal profession in spite of my earlier misgivings must seem a testament to that.

I have changed. I have become quite skilful at the art of glaring, for instance. More importantly than that, however, I have become a ruthless man. My brand of justice is heavy-handed because I openly despise criminals. I do not prosecute for the sake of money or fame.

In an attempt to remove myself from unpleasant memories, I transferred schools after the DL-6 Incident. From what I understand, a similar idea must have occurred to others involved in the incident, for Yanni Yogi and Misty Fey vanished without trace. I have not encountered either of them since.

Away from my childhood friends and among schoolchildren who were strangers to me, for the first time, I floundered in my studies. I was also unable to make friends among children my own age. Nobody could understand what I had been through. (For that matter, I still cannot make friends readily. Perhaps teaching myself how to glare icily at people required my social skills as tribute. Currently, my only friends appear to me vacuous idiots who cannot quite comprehend that I do not like them.)

But I digress. After wallowing aimlessly in self-pity for several months, I can credit one man for bringing clear purpose back into my life: Manfred von Karma, the undefeated prosecutor. I had not laid eyes on him since when he defeated Father in court; he said he had been on vacation. Knowing an important man like him must have a reason for visiting a lowly defence attorney's son, I asked him what it was. He replied that he wished to adopt me and tutor me in prosecutorial skills.

Manfred's proposal was as flummoxing as it seemed. To this day, I still cannot understand what his reasons behind his actions were. They must have been rather compelling, for von Karma refused to take no as my answer.

I accepted because foremost, I was honoured to receive such attention from a genius prosecutor. Secondly, my interest in law had not entirely diminished and I had grown more sympathetic to the cause of the prosecution as of late. Thirdly, I was a lonely boy and my heart yearned for someone I could admire again.

While I succeeded in aspiring to become like von Karma, I could never bring myself to love him. I delved whole-heartedly into my studies for the sake of earning his respect, but never did I yearn for his parental touch or for him to gaze fondly at me. I think a part of him may have always repulsed me. I would long for Father instead, and then I would be forced to berate myself for my foolishness before von Karma could find the opportunity.

My mentor was a strict teacher, often resorting to hitting me with his stick or slapping me if I fell behind in my studies. Yet learning under him furthered my appreciation for his talents. He was a man obsessed with perfection. He taught me how to construct the perfect trial of my own, how to exploit loopholes in the law to my favour, how to best counter any possible claim from my opposition. He was the reason why I thrived in my profession. For that, I owe the man an incalculable debt.

I wish to claim my story ends here. The nightmare of the DL-6 Incident was over. I became an adult and a contributing member of society. I no longer had anything to fear from paranoid dreams of murder. The boy Miles Edgeworth was dead and buried. The man Miles Edgeworth, the demon prosecutor, was alive and well.

I only wish that was the end.

My reason for writing this account is because yesterday, something happened that dredged up the memories of that incident. I received an abrupt letter from Robert Hammond informing me of his desire to meet me at Gourd Lake at midnight of Christmas Eve. Despite the unconventional nature of Hammond's request, I wrote back immediately, stating I would oblige. Although the statute of limitations on the DL-6 case expires within a week, I could not be set at ease by the prospect of legal closure. Thus, in spite of my better judgement, I let my heart rule me and my foolish, sentimental nine-year-old self was briefly reborn.


	4. 4 of 4

**Although Everything Changed...**

**==D==**

Several months ago, I unexpectedly encountered my childhood friend Phoenix Wright for the first time in fifteen years. It was not a pleasant reunion. Standing on opposite sides of the courtroom, I attempted to battle Wright with my usual weapons, for he had become a defence attorney. Somehow, and to this day I still cannot fathom the 'how', Wright defeated me in court. Twice. I maintain that on both occasions, he was blessed with rare luck; he is still as simple-minded as I remember him.

It was not the first time I heard from Wright since the DL-6 Incident. Mere months after my prosecutorial debut, I received letter after letter from him. _"Hello, Edgeworth," _he wrote. _"I'm not sure if you remember me. It's me, Phoenix Wright, your old friend from grade school."_ Incidentally, his handwriting was as cringe-inducing as ever. Wright expressed his concern for my wellbeing and positively begged me to maintain correspondence. I ignored his letters, not because I did not think fondly of him but because I had already distanced myself so thoroughly from the period of my life he belonged to that I was not about to permit any exceptions. Letting him into my life again carried that risk that he would learn of the DL-6 Incident. Knowing Wright, he would put everything else on the line simply to try and "save" me. I was almost relieved in a way to face him as a rival in court. There, I could not let petty feelings serve an obstacle; I would focus my undivided attention towards crushing him mercilessly.

Following my second defeat against Wright, I had a most unusual nightmare which I consider only marginally less horrific than what is conventional for me. I am in court glaring down at Wright as he flashes me an insipid grin. All of a sudden, the Judge declares that he will now read out his sentence: life imprisonment. I turn my gaze towards the defendant box before realising _I _am the defendant and that Wright is standing next to me. Before I am able to abscond, Wright drapes a red-coloured string over me, which somehow serves the purpose of pinning me to the spot. The dream ended there. I woke up sweating and in great fear for my livelihood.

The dream affirmed one unfortunate fact: Wright's presence in my life was not about to lessen. In spite of his aggravating victories over me, I found myself developing, much to my consternation, unnecessary feelings towards him. Put simply, I was beginning to place trust in his candid nature. He may even have resembled my idealised memories of my father somewhat if his arguments made logical sense and if his cases were not hastily constructed within the span of five minutes. His blind faith in his clients was rather admirable for all its insufferable naiveté.

That I would become a recipient of this was something I could never have anticipated.

**==L==**

Within hours after my meeting with Robert Hammond, the lawyer's dead body was found in Gourd Lake. The trial to prove my innocence was as harrowing as I could have predicted, and I watched Wright's performance from the defendant box with a mixture of trepidation and knotting fear in my abdomen. I dreamt my usual nightmare about the DL-6 Incident the night before, which robbed the precious little sleep I had managed to accumulate.

On the second day of the trial, Larry Butz was summoned as an indirect witness to testify about the night of the crime. Larry being another childhood friend I had not encountered in fifteen years, I must admit it was something of a strange sight, he at the witness stand to testify about my innocence. It occurred to me that I could even consider this an auspicious sight. I had never required friendship much over the years, yet in the end, I did need it after all. Larry and Wright repaid my abrupt departure from their lives with a keen loyalty I did little to deserve. Much as it pains me to admit, I could not help but feel affected by this display.

Prior to the third day of the trial, I finally came to a private decision. Seeing my friends work so tirelessly for my Not Guilty verdict offered me new insight into the reality of criminal trials. How many defendants sat in the same chair as I did unable to prove their case because an unforgiving man such as I led the prosecution? My narrow-mindedness may have obscured the truth rather than aided its cause. How many defendants were simply in the wrong place in the wrong time and I, in my insatiable quest for the perfect trial as a student of von Karma, prosecuted relentlessly until that Guilty verdict was reached? Little wonder only Wright was willing to defend me. I had defeated every other defence attorney in the country with consistent levels of brutality.

In order to repay Wright, I sought the only possible means: I told him about my nightmares.

As Wright gazed at me in shock and horror, I felt a rather contradictory emotion: relief. I had kept this burden so close to me for so many years; it was if a weight fell off my shoulders when I finally admitted aloud that I was my father's killer. I thought: "No matter how painful it is, the truth must be known." It was a truth I refused to admit, even to myself. Even with my secret laid bare, I knew it was not enough to win redemption. I am a prosecutor and I seek justice.

For that reason, and for that reason alone, on the third day of the trial, I confessed my crime to the court within minutes of being acquitted of the murder of Robert Hammond. Amid the gasps and general uproar I heard within the courtroom, I thought I could almost feel a tranquil lull descend upon me. Almost, yet not quite. A part of me still shied away from the new creed I had committed myself to. That part of me still clung to the belief that my recurring nightmare was not my subconscious expression of the memories my youthful mind had suppressed. That it really _was _justa terrible dream and survivor's guilt was what caused it to surface.

Because that part of me who wanted so desperately to be innocent lingered in existence, I was unable to ignore my first impulse to what Wright said to me during the recess. Yet again, I felt compelled to believe in the undying faith he held for me.

This is what he said to me: "I'm sorry, Edgeworth. But I don't believe your 'nightmare.' It's just a dream. It's not real. The truth is right here in this Court Record."

**==6==**

When I was a young boy, my father did not read bedtime stories to me. He tried once, I think, although I displayed far too much relish in pointing out the contradictions and he promptly quit the farce. He preferred to spend his evenings reading and listening to the radio. He usually had a glass of red wine at his side, although at his leisurely rate of sipping he required several hours to ingest the contents. I remember once reaching out for the glass out of curiosity only for him to grab at my hand and to tell me gently yet firmly that it was not legal for me to drink.

I cannot remember a time when I did not want to be lawful. I have always considered the law to be the ideal medium to bring order to society. However, the law is far from perfect. Sometimes, in its bureaucratic approach to equity, the truth is obscured. If the statute of limitations on the DL-6 case expired, then legally, the case never happened. The dark truths swirling around it could be hidden away forever and my father's true killer could never be legally acknowledged. Law would prevail over truth in a way that could never have been intended by those venerable minds who formulated the judicial system as we know it today.

A lawyer is a person who is paid to deal with legal matters and not necessarily with the truth. An experienced lawyer, knowing and being frustrated by the bumbling ineptitude of a complex yet forever imperfect system he works within, could very well take justice into his own hands. He could hide and twist the truth and in doing so may never be held as a criminal. Although I eventually became a lawyer partly as a result of my overwhelming desire to punish myself, I had evaded the scrutiny of the law for so many years. The most qualified person to escape from justice is a lawyer himself.

I realised that as the trial to prove my role in my father's murder ensued. I began to question myself: What was the true, most nobly intended role for the prosecutor? For the defence attorney?

I gave my testimony regarding my nightmare and Wright... he pointed out the contradictions. Then, with an objection tempered with fiery resolve, he stated his belief that the true culprit of the DL-6 _was neither Miles Edgeworth nor Yanni Yogi._

Although the murder weapon was fired twice, only one bullet was found and that was within my father's body. The second bullet – and Wright believed this to be one I had fired – was never discovered for a vitally important reason.

_The two men fight inside the elevator. Trying to stop them, the boy picks up the pistol at his feet and throws it. The pistol discharges, and the bullet... The bullet goes through the elevator door and hits the murderer outside! The boy loses consciousness... Then the murderer opens the elevator door and sees the men inside..._

"Your Honor!" exclaimed Wright. "There is a suspect... one lone suspect!"

Then he went on to state the person's name.

It was von Karma, the name of my mentor.

Wright's reason for linking von Karma to the murder? "Because you took a vacation for several months starting the day after the incident! Yet you pride yourself on a perfect record! Why would you take such a long vacation without any reason?"

It was something I had pondered on myself, yet I certainly never displayed the mental audacity to associate von Karma's vacation with recovery from injury.

I could not quite believe it, not until Wright proved it. He could _not _prove it, however. My mentor was a perfect man, obsessive even, with how perfect he was. Something as simple as his outfit needed to spun and woven to his almost unrealistic perception of quality before he would fain to wear it. He would not be so foolish as to undertake surgery to remove a bullet; the doctor would be left as a witness.

So what did Wright then do but to produce a metal detector? "There is the possibility that the bullet is still inside von Karma!" he reasoned.

It was ridiculous. It was implausible. And yet...

When I heard the metal beep in reaction, I felt for the first time exonerated of the heavy burden I had toiled beneath for so many years. I was innocent.

I was also furious.

Myriad emotions swirled inside of me yet I tried, just as my father would, to peer through the entanglements of his lies and fell secrets and to press my gaze keenly onto the truth. The man who taught me how to prosecute – why did he do it? Why did he kill my father?

When I heard the cornered von Karma scream with a howl that ripped through the courtroom, I knew Wright's theory to be correct beyond a shadow of doubt. The scream was unmistakable to me. I had listened to it for far too many years. It rang in the back of my mind perpetually, and I often retrieved the memory of its sound even when I was thinking or doing something totally unrelated. When I read the newspaper, for instance, or when I have a shower. Anything. That cursed scream was at my every beckon and call.

"von Karma! It was you who screamed!"

I inwardly denounced him then and there. At least, I wanted to. Manfred von Karma was the man I had worked so hard to please. I was a lonely boy; I simply wanted Father to say he was proud of me. But he couldn't. Not any more. Even as an adult, I never wanted to stop believing in him.

My thoughts at that moment thus took on a simple, childlike simplicity. Attempting to write something eloquent has only resulted in me erasing half a dozen sentences as I formulate them. Yet I wonder sometimes... Is there anything so wrong with a child's temperament and understanding? When I was a boy, I saw the world in black and white. Justice was such an incredibly easy concept to define. Unfortunately, my boyhood ended so abruptly I never had the chance to savour it. It ended because of von Karma, the man who now stripped his civilised facade plainly off of him, just as Yanni Yogi had all those years ago.

In raging tones, von Karma detailed to me his black and twisted motives for doing all that he did. He despised my father for marring his perfect record. He despised me for accidentally shooting him in his right shoulder. He despised the Edgeworth name with every fibre of his perfect being.

"It was a shock like none I had ever known," he explained. "Me? Penalised? It took hours for me to regain my composure. Suddenly, I found myself in the darkness... I was in the court records room. I must have wandered in there without thinking where I was going. The room was pitch black. The lights must have gone out. I went out in the hall and felt my way to the elevator. I pressed the button and nothing happened. Then... there was a noise! I was in pain! A horrible, burning pain in my shoulder! Just then, the lights came back on. The elevator door opened before my eyes. I saw three people inside, all lying unconscious from oxygen deprivation. Much to my surprise, a pistol lay at my feet. I knew then... it was destiny. In his last moments, Gregory Edgeworth was still unconscious. He died, never knowing who had shot him. Later, he spoke through a medium, blaming Mr. Yogi. He was fooled! It was the perfect crime!"

As I watched the authorities take away the now defeated prosecutor, I thought I understood why he took me under his wing. It was an elaborate attempt at revenge against my father, to corrupt that innocent son of his. For that single perverse reason, von Karma showered me with attention. A smirk would play upon his lips when I delivered to him the fruits of my scholarly labours. He seemed so _proud_, not of me but of himself when I passed the bar exam without dropping a single mark. I was his whimsical pet project; he displayed more interest in me than he ever had in his own daughter.

The ramifications of that day in court were something I would continue to meander upon for months to come. However, for the moment, I was content. The DL-6 nightmare was over and my recurrent nightmares about the incident never returned in such a meaningful shape or form. I was perfectly entitled to begin my stumbling steps forward towards a brighter tomorrow. I was not entirely happy yet, although I continued to hold out for the day I could grasp what I now truly wanted.

When the Judge declared me innocent, I found it nigh impossible to think straight, as if I was suffering from acute oxygen deprivation yet again. It was a different situation, however, and to it, I felt curiously detached. It was as if a different person stood before the court to be exonerated of his charges. A different person felt his heart lift and soar, simply because now he was free of his constraints.

I realise that different person is the "me" who existed fifteen years ago.

**== Case Closed ==**

I was waiting to use the ATM the other day when I noticed a boy who could have been no older than seven gazing lasciviously at a Steel Samurai themed vending machine. I inspected the vending machine, discovered the pricing was akin to daylight robbery before I... well, I handed the boy my spare change. I do not ever recall performing an act of charity of that kind previously.

I did not get thanked. The boy eagerly accepted the money and proceeded to purchase a Samurai Dog with nary a glance in his benefactor's direction. I ought to have felt indignant about it but I did not. Abruptly, I was reminded of what minor event occurred after I left the courtroom.

I had wanted to thank Wright for defending me. When I eventually did so, I immediately felt foolish. I had never thanked him for anything. Children could be unintentionally callous like that, yet in other ways, they expressed their gratitude so aptly. The boy who happily munched on his newly acquired Samurai Dog was no exception clause to the Act passed down by the order of the universe. (I was not so philosophical when he somehow spilt ketchup on my cravat.)

Not for the first time, I found my thoughts drifting towards my childhood. My lifelong desire to become a defence attorney now vindicated, I had to wonder if there did exist any adequate reason to make a switch. In the back of my mind, the memory of von Karma lingered. A perfect trial could not exist, surely. What von Karma delivered in court was not the perfect trial, although I believe he thought of it as his job, as his _duty_, to win guilty verdicts. It was what prosecutors were paid to do and he did it... perfectly. In that sense, was he really such a corrupt man? I had poured all of my respect onto him for a reason. Was I to despise my role as a prosecutor because von Karma had been one? Was the prosecutor really the mortal enemy of a defence attorney?

I thought about Wright. I thought about the battles we had shared. I thought about the thread that bound our actions together.

Only one clear path shone before me: namely, the path I had chosen to embrace, even at the cost of my innocence.

So I would continue to walk my path, sparing not a glance behind me, but perhaps I would glance to my left and to my right. There I would find those who had chosen the same destination and route as I. I would see my father and I would see Wright walking in stride, for the three of us were lawyers who had fixed our gazes upon the truth.

**Fin**

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**A****uthor's note: **Okay, so I didn't want to disrupt the story's flow by sticking in author's notes between chapters. So I'm just going to stick them all here at the end, see? Anyway, thank you thank you so much for getting this far and reading this story. I hoped you liked it. And yeah, you can probably see by now my usual writing style isn't as, er, _verbose _as it was in this story. Edgeworth's probably one of my favourite video game characters of all time, so I really wanted to try and capture his personality with the first-person POV. Actually, I really personally related to him as a person and his relationship with his father and that... not sure if that came through or not. I'd be kind of embarrassed if it did, haha.

Stylistically, I also saw this story as a bit of an experiment. I'm used to writing lots of action and dialogue, so I wanted to take the time to draw out the descriptions with this one. This is a very atmospheric sort of story, so I'm really sorry if it seems boring to you because it's not really like the other fics you see on this site.

I'm happy to state that this is my thirtieth fanfic and I think it marks a lot of my improvement as a writer over the years. There are so many good writers and reviewers who have inspired me. So thank you again, everyone! I'm really, really grateful!

(Oh, and before you ask, yes that is Cody Hackins at the end there and Edgeworth's dream about the red string is exactly what you think it is. Yeah.)


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